


Red Queen

by The-Empress-of-Snark (uleanblue)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Episode VIII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Maybe some angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, SwoloFic, not a slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-31 23:46:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13985868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uleanblue/pseuds/The-Empress-of-Snark
Summary: Along with the sudden, uncomfortable realization that he’s more than a little aroused, comes the knowledge that this whole deal is probably fucked, no matter what tonight’s outcome. He decides right then that reconnecting with her is worth one of his fingers...except maybe the right index, because that would seriously fuck up his ability to fire a gun.





	Red Queen

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Warnings: This story contains mentions of drugs and drug use, if you find that objectionable please don’t read. 
> 
> Also, please be advised there is a deliberately excessive amount of profanity. Fuck Yeah.

 

Kylo Ren clenches his jaw and grips the handle of the sleek, black attache case until his leather gloves creak. 

He is alone. At two am. In the absolutely shittiest, most crime ridden neighborhood in all of Takodana. Because of course he is. 

Oh, but technically, he’s on the clock - as if that's supposed to mitigate the fact that no matter what the conclusion to tonight's business, he'll have to throw away his shoes. Maybe even burn them. It's that fucking gross here. 

The lone streetlamp whose bulb hasn't been shattered flickers anemically on the corner half a block away, leaving a long swathe of the street shrouded in gloom. Kylo stands tall, unintimidated, even with his peripheral vision somewhat hindered by his motorcycle helmet.

Truth be told, he is _by far_ the scariest thing currently going bump in the night. Clad in black from his polished, steel toed Doc Martens and custom, fitted black leather jacket, to his metallic onyx helmet, his whole persona exudes an aura of _don't fuck with me._

Tonight’s assignment entails recruiting some mysterious new player in town whose sudden, meteoric rise in the younger consumer demographic has dealt an unanticipated blow to Snoke’s profit margins. Which, judging from the ear shattering rage fest he and his colleague Hux were subjected to earlier, is completely unacceptable. 

Of course, when Snoke says _recruit,_ what he really means is for Kylo to gently _encourage_ them to embrace the benefits of operating within the Order’s organizational framework. Or else. The contents of the case are there to sweeten the deal - a signing bonus, as it were. And in the unlikely event that fails, well...there’s always option B. 

Option B is what happens when some moronic fuck decides that _or else_ is an actual viable choice. It's far less pleasant and involves Kylo slicing off of a number of extremities - number and type at his discretion, depending on the situation - before administering a bullet between the eyes and dumping the body in the river as a warning to any other two bit hoods stupid enough to think they can infringe on First Order territory without consequences 

Just another night in the glamorous life of a crime lord. 

For some weird reason though, he's not feeling it tonight. He can’t put his finger on exactly what it is. He just... _He has a bad feeling about this._

_Who wouldn't have a bad feeling about walking blind into a potential trap?_

Ren flicks up his visor, takes a deep breath, and instantly regrets it. Sweet fucking Jesus. Yeah, nothing sets the mood for an evening business deal like the stench of fresh death. Holy shit. A quick glance around reveals a nearby dumpster half concealed by shadows. He makes a mental note of the cross streets, in case he ever needs a convenient disposal spot in the future. Unfortunately, as the corpse that must currently occupy it didn’t crawl in there under its own power, it means police will likely be swarming the place by daybreak. _Fucking fantastic._

Shoving the visor back down, he half stomps, half paces back and forth for a minute. Fuck. Maybe it’s a sign. Except, he doesn't believe in signs. 

He’s never been superstitious, never believed in psychic phenomena, or spirits or any sort of magic eight ball bullshit. He trusts his instincts, his wits, and his fists. 

None of his considerable physical prowess and well honed badassery will mean dick, though, if this is all a setup. Kylo hasn't kept himself alive and intact - well, apart from a few choice scars that surprisingly, enhance his image and possibly even get him laid - by ignoring the little voice in his head. And right now, every sense he has is screaming out that this whole scenario is an epic shitshow in the making. 

He knows virtually nothing about this contact, and nobody in the organization has managed to gather much intel. He doesn't like that there is so much that could go wrong. Correction. He fucking hates it.

What the fuck is he even doing in this darkened,filthy, trash strewn fucking alley? Eyeballing a warehouse door so disgusting, so caked in layers of dirt, flaking, battered paint and rust that if it opens at all, the shrill, eardrum piercing squeal will likely raise the hackles on every dog within a five mile radius. 

 

With the blare of wailing sirens in various locations in the distance, he freezes for an instant as Snoke's voice - sharp, mocking, debilitating - the one that harps on his myriad flaws, and how his entire life will go from zero to absolute shit in a heartbeat if he fails -suddenly begins cycling through his brain in an endless loop. _You’re weak pathetic like your father you don’t belong here don’t have what it takes -_

Kylo’s eyes dart back and forth down the alley once more. He notices, then, the tiny red LED light of a camera discreetly mounted in the brickwork about a meter over the warehouse door. _Of course_. Of course they’d be watching him. And he’s giving them a hell of a show. 

His eyes scrunch shut, and his throat bobs as invisible bands suddenly tighten around his chest like a vise. What the fuck? He's losing his shit like a rookie. A distant voice in his head helpfully supplies that he's having a panic attack. He already figured that out, thank you. _Breathe, you dumbfuck._

As he sucks in air, he tries to remind himself that he’s legit fucking _hardcore_ \- terrifying when he wants or needs to be. In his line of work, stone faced intimidation and the ability to fuck up somebody’s shitwithout breaking a sweat is just standard operating procedure. Despite the chill in the air, a bead of sweat slides down his back, under the pistol tucked into the waistband of his briefs. _Come on, breathe._

It’s not helping. His brain is too scrambled and he prepares to go into abort mode, which certainly won't earn him any favor with his boss. If Snoke was pissed off before, after this he'll be lucky to leave the room with all his fingers. 

Just as the last remnants of his already tenuous composure hover on the verge of collapse, the muffled vibration of his cell phone in his pocket snaps him out of his escalating freak out. 

He snatches the phone from his pocket and quickly scans the text. 

_The door isn’t locked. Unless there's a reason you prefer the alley? I assure you it smells much, much better in here._

He blinks at the sheer, unexpected incongruity between the words and the chaotic, shadowy menace of his current surroundings, and he can’t put his finger on why he finds them oddly reassuring, but his paralysis ratchets down enough for him to take a step forward. 

To his surprise, the door swings soundlessly open and a disbelieving huff escapes him as he steps inside, his relief at being out of the alley a near palpable thing. He finds himself inside the cavernous, completely empty shell of what must have once been a bustling industrial manufacturing facility, concrete block walls painted a neutral, nondescript tan. Freshly waxed, institutional style floor tiles gleam in the cool glow of long, fluorescent fixtures as he scans the interior. The immaculate cleanliness is a jarring contrast to the dilapidated exterior, and it occurs to him that the Order has dangerously miscalculated, if the person - or persons he’s about to meet could pull off such an impressive transformation completely under their radar. The thought is enough to clear his head and put him on full alert. 

At the far end is a large, steel grated service elevator. Also brand new. 

Another text comes through: _Take the lift. Top floor._

There is a woman waiting at the top. She’s alone, from what he can see. It's hardly tactically advantageous, he thinks, unless she’s got a crew hidden and waiting in the wings. 

As the bright yellow safety gates slide apart and he finally sees just who is standing there, his breath catches in stunned surprise. For several seconds he is struck dumb, a new and wholly different sort of panic flaring with a searing, startling heat, like a match tossed in a barrel of gasoline. 

Because he knows her. 

Correction. Knew her - or at least, he thought he did. And now, his mind reels and he vainly tries to wrap his brain around her presence and what it means. _Fuck. No. This is...fuck._ He can't process it. The questions rapidly pile up, but he can't get his mouth to work, and how is it even possible that she could be the recipient of the half kilo of high grade cannabis in his case? 

At first, the woman’s stance is relaxed - almost deceptively casual, but as the seconds tick by in silence she grows visibly more tense. Still, her tone is carefully neutral as she greets him. “Good evening.”

“Rey?” Shit, his voice sounds all distorted and raspy from the helmet. No way can she recognize him. 

Her eyes widen, and she goes completely rigid. “Who are you?” she demands. 

What he does next could easily qualify as the stupidest, most wildly impulsive thing he’s ever done. Well, in the top five, at least, not counting the time he threw himself out of an airborne helicopter over the Hudson, earning himself an impromptu orientation with Coast Guard water rescue protocol - and no, they didn't let him keep the life preserver as a souvenir. 

Without another word he abruptly releases his hold on the case, letting it drop to the floor, and reaches both hands up toward his head. Before it clatters to the ground, Rey jolts, swiftly drawing a pistol from the back of her jeans and leveling it at his face in a smooth, reflexive move. He freezes then, his hands gripping the base of his helmet. 

“Don't you fucking move!” 

He doesn't. 

She stalks toward him, mouth twisted into a snarl and he resists the urge to grin like an idiot. Kylo’s no stranger to being forced into the ‘hands up’ position and having some knucklehead try to take his gun. Usually, he’s compliant just long enough for them to get within striking distance, and he’s willing to bet that with a single downward jab of his elbow he could easily knock her off balance and take her pistol. But he doesn't. 

Instead, he stands quietly, taking advantage of the precious few seconds his face will remain concealed to check her out. God, she's _beautiful_ \- more so than he ever remembered, even in just a plain royal blue tank top, tight faded jeans skimming over the slender curve of her hips. He tries not to imagine his hands sliding over them. And fails. 

With the gun fixed unerringly on his face she pats him down, smoothly reaches around his waist to relieve him of his weapon, then backs up, deftly reengaging the safety before tossing it out of reach. Well, damn. She’s got it down, her movements well practiced, efficient, and.. _._ it's...it’s fucking _hot_.

Whoa. _Down, boy._

His attention shifts back to Rey, who eyes him expectantly, though she appears slightly agitated. He figures he’s got about two seconds to salvage this clusterfuck before she blows his brains out.

“Rey,” he says, keeping his voice low and conversational despite the adrenaline surging through his system, “can I take off my helmet? I promise that’s all I’m gonna do.”

She gives a quick nod and says, icily, “try _anything_ and it’ll be the last fucking thing you ever do.”

There's a rough, throaty growl in her voice that sends a warm, pleasant shiver down his spine. Oh, she's good. Lethal. All business. It's quite an unexpected turn on. 

_Shit_. 

Along with the sudden, uncomfortable realization that he’s more than a little aroused, comes the knowledge that this whole deal is probably fucked, no matter what tonight’s outcome. He decides right then that reconnecting with her is worth one of his fingers _except maybe the right index because that would seriously fuck up his ability to fire a gun._

Very, very slowly he eases the helmet upward and off, then inexplicably gives her this hopeful, lopsided smile while trying to toss his sweat damp hair off his face. What the actual fuck is wrong with him?

She gapes at him, her eyes widening almost comically.

She doesn't put the gun down, though. That could be a problem. 

“Fucking hell,” she breathes. “ _Ben_?”

“Long time no see.” The words are barely out of his mouth and instantly, he’s half cringing internally from his spectacular inability to fucking _articulate_ , and half wishing she'd followed through on her threat to shoot him. Then the cops could get a two for one dumpster special. 

Slowly, she lowers her arms. Her head tilts ever so slightly, the corners of her mouth quirking up just a fraction as realization dawns on her.“You. You're _Kylo Ren.”_

“Yeah.” 

“I’ve heard you're a monster.”

“I am,” he replies, just the right amount of deep, rumbling cool in his tone, which he immediately ruins by adding, “usually.” Oh, _balls_. He could literally smack himself in the face right now at his utter lameness. 

She hums for a second, considering him, then says “I don’t like monsters,” her voice and affect dropping flat so rapidly, it’s like a different person has stepped into her place. For a split second he’s honest to God _freaked out_ and for the second time that evening he feels like he’s completely out of his depth. It hits him then, that it’s entirely likely the corpse in the alley is her handiwork. _Sweet fucking Jesus_. Just thirty seconds ago he was thinking about his danger boner. 

Sliding the safety back on her pistol, she snaps back so quickly he thinks his head might actually spin, then says, matter of factly, “well, come on, then. We apparently have some catching up to do.” She nods toward his case, “and then we’ll have a look at what you’ve brought me.” 

_Okay. So...she’s not the girl you used to know._ Which is the understatement of the year, but he's too caught up to back out now. “Sounds like a plan.”

Without breaking eye contact he leans down, picks up the case, then steps toward her. She smiles at him, gestures for him to follow and his breath catches. 

Alarms are still buzzing in the back of his head. 

He ignores them. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: As with all my writing, I'm not sure just when I can update. There’s just been a lot going on. 
> 
> I've been working on a few things simultaneously like Baiser, and other works, and there's not really a plan or schedule in place so...yeah.


End file.
